Wrap Up Warm, Brother Mine (There's An East Wind Coming)
by Abbitte
Summary: "It takes the Earth approximately 23 hours, 56 minutes and 4.09 seconds to make one complete revolution. Now it will take forever for this moment to end."


Mycroft sat in his chair, fully aware of how he should be concentrating on the issue that unfolded itself in front of him. The Finnish government seated in front of him, rambling on about his vicious neighbour Russia. _(beware of the wolf when you search your nest)_

It had been two weeks since Sherlock had jumped. Two weeks, 14 days. 336 hours. 20160 minutes. 1209600 seconds. 1209601. 1209602. The numbers swirling around in Mycroft's head. Recalculating. Numbers changing. Increasing. Time stretching endlessly.

Time is relative, he mused, but when it comes to death it does simply not exist.  
There's no such thing as a quick death, in which people he could only pity loved to believe in.  
And there's no such thing as forgotten due to the time that passed.

The simple act of dying changes the very fundamentally element of time. It throws the world off its axis, preventing it from completing its orbit. Stopping the eternal rotation of the globe. It shifts the center of time and space. Frozen.

(For everyone else, it will go on. But not for Mycroft, because for him, time changed. His world is different now.)

(It takes the Earth approximately 23 hours, 56 minutes and 4.09 seconds to make one complete revolution. Now it will take forever for this moment to end.)

Time is relative. It can _stretch._

He wonders if it does exactly that for people who die. Stretching the moment of their dead into eternity, dooming his brother to live that exact split-second of hitting the cold, wet ground and feeling the flash of agonising pain while his lungs collaps and his heart bursts until the universe stops existing.

* * *

_There's an East Wind coming_

the words Sherlock had all but muttered while being high out of his mind, the needle still in his arms. Lying in front of Mycroft. Limp and almost lifeless. Obscene. Calmer than he had ever seen his brother before.

That had been 785 days before he jumped. 785 days, 112,14 weeks. 18840 hours. 1130400 minutes. 67824000 seconds. 67824000. 67824000. (There's no countdown to the point of death. Not one to be counted afterwise. It will always be 67824000 seconds before he jumped. )

_East Wind._

The east wind, a biblical metaphore for death and destruction. A symbol for rain and cold mist in the native american culture. Their code for dying. For a loss of control, a lack of solutions.

He had hoped to never hear those words, but yet, in a cruel way only fates seems to get off on, he had. His ears were still ringing. East wind. East wind. He had picked up the phone. Not knowing what was waiting on the other side of the line.

"Sherlock I hope you're not calling me to finally tell me the happy news of you and John tying the knot.''

Silence.

"Wrap up warm, brother mine, there's an east wind coming.''

Line dead.

Sherlock dead.

The words echoing in his head ever since. He wrote them down. Papers filled with an endless stream of words. Repeating two.

_East wind._

He had become obsessed with trying to forget them. ban them. But they had burned themselves into his memory, forever accompanying him ever since and for the rest of his life.

* * *

Before Sherlock had jumped, which had now been 16 days. (16 days. 384 hours. 23040 minutes. 1382400 seconds) Mycroft would go home, sit down in his comfy leather sofa and drink a glass of the finest scotch he could find. To calm down, to relax.

Now. 1382400 seconds after Sherlock threw the world of its axis, he would come home. Sit down on his leather sofa and drink a glass of scotch. Or vodka. Or wine.  
And another glass. And another one. Until he can feel his brain going silent and his senses going numb.

Until his mind stops repeating the only words he seems to remember.

The words tattooed on his soul. His heart.

More often than not he would wake up in the morning. With a headache that feels like a herd of rhinoceroses is dancing the finnish tango on his head. But that's okay. That's okay.

Because that at least meant he could sleep.

* * *

85 days after Sherlock's life came to a brutal, painful end on the ground in front of Bart's hospital, Mycroft found himself roaming the streets of London.

(85 days. 2040 hours. 122400 minutes. 7344000 seconds.)

He was drunk. Drunk and every cell in his brain was singing to him. A mocking tune, repeating two words. _East wind. East wind. East wind._

He felt like he was screaming out the words. Like they were emblazoned along his forehead. Flashing neon colours. A flagship of weakness.

They're everywhere.

* * *

It had been 125 days since Sherlock killed himself. (125 days. 3000 hours. 180000 minutes. 10800000 seconds. )

12600000 heartbeats ago. 12600001. 12600002.

He wished his heart would stop working. Every single beat reminding him of his brother.

He had read the report. His heart had burst.

12600003. 12600004. 12600005.

The sound deriding and clear inside his chest. A constant thump against his ribs. A constant reminder of how he was alive while his brother wasn't.

12600006. 12600008.

He wishes it would stop.

* * *

It had been 202 days. (202 days. 4848 hours. 290880 minutes. 17452800 seconds.)

Mycroft had always said he would never do something as stupid and idiotic as taking drugs. But it seems even the British government makes mistakes. And as he felt the needle penetrating his skin and the warm fluid being released into his bloodstream he started to relax.

His body went soft and his mind calm. Thoughts barely graspable underneath a thick, heroin-induced fog.

And it's okay. It's okay.

Because it meant he could forget.

* * *

It had been 360 days. (360 days. 8640 hours. 518400 minutes. 31104000 seconds.)

Mycroft's habit of taking a needle to his skin had increased dramatically over the time that had passed since the First Time.  
And it was never good enough. It didn't feel like the first.

He was hunting down the romanticised ghost of a memory and he knew it. He couldn't bring himself to care.

He highered the dose. Bit by bit.

He's tired.

* * *

Mycroft's found on the ground in an alley of london exactly 1 year after Sherlock jumped. 1 year. (365 days. 8760 hours. 525600 minutes. 31536000 seconds.)

It's been 31536000 seconds since Sherlock's heart gave up.  
And it's been one since Mycroft's stopped beating.

_Wrap up warm, brother mine. There's an east wind coming. It's taking me to you._

The words died on his lips.

(It takes the Earth approximately 23 hours, 56 minutes and 4.09 seconds to make one complete revolution. Now it will take forever for this moment to end.)


End file.
